


Peach Fizz

by akc



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alcohol, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Spoilers, Suits, i guess it is anyway, they're at a bar so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 19:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15541293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akc/pseuds/akc
Summary: Four years after the Phantom Thieves have disbanded, Akira finds himself sitting next to Akechi Goro while at a formal party, who he'd thought had been long dead.And somehow, he's wearing Akira's tie.





	Peach Fizz

**Author's Note:**

> someone on twitter was like "akechi and akira meeting at a bar wearing fancy suits years after november's events" and i am a sucker for that trope so here we have it

Akira hates formal parties.

He doesn’t mind dressing up in a suit and whatnot, that part is fine. The problem with formal parties is that they can be so unpredictable — who might he run into? What might he accidentally spill on the floor? Who may he end up having an uncomfortable, forced conversation with? There are too many unknown variables. It’s not that he can’t handle them, but it’s just such a _hassle._

But here he is, standing in his suit, ironed just for the event, sweating a bit underneath the giant chandeliers. To be specific, this formal party has been organized by Haru — something for Okumura Foods — so he felt obliged to come. Makoto and Ryuji have come as well, but momentarily abandoned him to get drinks.

Akira takes out his phone and checks the time. 21:12. He sighs. Another reason why he doesn’t like formal parties, he realizes, is that they are so damn boring. Time moves far slower during these kinds of events, when all he can do is tap his foot on a red carpet and complain to his friends.

Speaking of which — he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns around to find Ryuji and Makoto.

“Sorry we took so long, man,” Ryuji says, pressing a drink into his hands. “People don’t know how to wait their damn turn when ordering shit.”

Makoto smiles wryly. “I love Haru, but she’s invited some truly pushy guests.”

Akira stares at his drink. He doesn’t know what it is. “Half of them are probably plus-ones, since it said you could invite a guest on the card.” He bends his knees. “Wanna find our table? I’ve been standing since we got here. My feet are killing me in these shoes.”

Makoto gestures to her heels. “You think _your_ feet hurt?” She laughs. “Yes, let’s find our table.”

They hunt for their designated table, veering around oblivious guests that stand in inconvenient places and block their path. Their table is near the center of the room and decorated with a velvety red tablecloth and candle centerpiece. Akira runs his hand on the smooth fabric before sitting down, crossing his leg over his knee. He tastes his drink. It tastes like matcha.

He makes comfortable conversation with Makoto and Ryuji, pointing out various adults and commenting on some of their strange mannerisms. “Everyone here is so pretentious. They keep lookin’ at us,” Ryuji says.

“Looking at _you,_ more like,” Makoto corrects. “You’ve got a piece of hair sticking up.” She attempts to smooth it down for him, wetting a napkin, and then continuing: “Though Akira is sticking out a bit too by standing around idly. You’ve been to a few of these before, you know — you don’t have to act so shy and… _out of your element.”_

“I am not out of my element. I just think it’s boring,” he says.

As he watches Makoto persevere in her endeavor to fix Ryuji’s hair, Akira has the strangest feeling that someone is watching him.

He frowns and turns around, scanning the sea of tables one by one until —

No, it can’t be.

Akira does a double take and watches the brown haired boy — man — a few tables away that was clearly staring at him quickly stand up, nearly knocking a glass over from the violent movement, and hurry away in the opposite direction, eyes wide.

The dining room feels like it is suddenly underwater.

“Akira?” Makoto’s voice makes him whip his head back around. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” His brain searches for words. It’s like faulty wiring. “I thought I just saw…” He shakes his head.

“You thought you just saw..?”

“Nobody.” He finishes his drink, sets it on the table and stands, eyes on the crowds of people. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Makoto and Ryuji exchange looks but say nothing. Akira hurries in the direction of the bathrooms and then, once out of sight from his friends, swerves back to follow where that brown haired man had gone. He shamelessly bumps into the other guests, mumbling a plethora of ‘excuse me’s and ‘sorry’s along the way. God, he knows he probably looks absolutely panicked, but he _needs_ to confirm that who he saw was really…

He doesn’t know. Is it actually possible?

No, it’s not. There are plenty of people with brown hair.

It isn’t possible.

Akira stops in the middle of the the hall and glances down at his feet absently, and it dawns on him that perhaps he was just imagining him. Perhaps he was imagining something that he hoped to be true. He thinks back four years ago, to Shido’s palace, to the smell of propane from the boiler room and to the sudden sight of a wall and gunshots and explosions. He curls his hand into a fist and uncurls it. Yes. It was his imagination. Futaba had said it, back then — _can’t detect a signal._

Feeling foolish, he heads back to the table and sits back down.

“You were gone a while. Got you another drink. You sure you’re okay?” Ryuji asks, motioning his hand around the drink. Akira takes it and tastes it. This one tastes like raspberry. It’s quite bitter, but he sips on it to be polite.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just got like, overheated, or something.” He sighs. This party is taking forever. Haru has already given her speech, but Akira promised her he’d stay afterwards and catch up with her. He has gotten himself stuck here.

After a small amount of distracted conversation and pointing out strange guests again, Akira once more feels as though he is being watched.

This time, he decides, he wants to be indistinct about looking through the crowd. He pretends to crack his back, turning his body to the right and then to the left.

Bingo.

A few tables away, now in a different spot, he spies that brown haired man staring at him. From the corner of his eye he watches him stand up again — though in a relatively more composed manner this time around — and walk away.

Come _on._ This is ludicrous. Akira feels like he’s going nuts; like he’s staking someone out.

“I’m gonna get a different drink,” he says. “This one’s kind of too bitter. Sorry, Ryuji. Do you guys want anything?”

Makoto and Ryuji shake their heads and Akira stands to walk in the direction of the bar.

Even if all his running around turns out to be for naught, and this man isn’t who he thinks it is, Akira wants to at least know why this person is staring at him. Besides that, he needs to quash the stupid knotty feeling in his stomach. His brain tells him it isn’t possible — _it can’t be who you think it is!_ — but somewhere, deep along his spine, he wants to believe in the miracle. Because even though it has been four long years since the Phantom Thieves disbanded, if Akira were to ever be given an opportunity to talk to _him,_ he would take it in a heartbeat. There’s so much he wants to say.

Even so, he doesn’t know how he would articulate himself.

Akira approaches the bar and is about to turn around when he catches that head of brown hair, sitting at the second to last seat on the right.

The second to last seat on the right…

Akira swallows. He needs to go about this carefully. He thinks quickly and sits on the far left, obscuring himself from view by using the patrons sitting in between himself and the other man as a shield. Then he digs into his pocket rather frantically, pulling out some money and waving over the bartender. He thinks of a sweet drink. Something sweet, something sweet… Akira doesn’t drink often. What’s something Haru likes?

“Sir?”

Akira snaps his head up. The bartender has been trying to get his attention. Whoops.

His head is spinning. He grips the edge of counter as though letting go will cause him to slip off the side of the planet.

“Uh, I’ll have a — an Asahi Red Eye. And a Peach Fizz for the guy with the brown hair down at the right end.”

The bartender takes a moment to make the drinks. When Akira’s is set down gently in front of him, he immediately takes it and wraps his hand tightly around the perimeter until his knuckles go white. It’s a nice distraction. With his other hand he drums his fingers against the granite bar top. He makes a conscious effort to focus on the sound his fingernails make when they connect with the smooth surface while he drinks.

This sucks. Makoto was right. He really is out of his element now. Maybe it’s just the mood of this particular party. The lights from the chandeliers weigh down on him like tarp; make him feel a little hazy. What is he doing? What if this person isn’t who he thinks he is? Then what?

 _You need to drink slower,_ he tells himself, setting the glass down and centering all his attention on holding it in his hand. Makoto and Ryuji are probably wondering where he is, but he’s hoping they’ll chalk it up to people being rude and pushy again.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed by when someone sits next to him. Akira does not look. A long stretch of mocking silence passes.

“It’s quite rude to ignore the person you bought a drink for, you know,” the someone says. Akira’s heart nearly stops at his voice.

He turns to face him, in slow motion. The world warps for a second.

“Akechi?”

“Seems you’ve found me.”

Akira can only splutter.

“Found you? You make me sound like the detective now. What are you doing here? How did you get here? I’m not — er, I’m not seeing things, right? You’re not a ghost?”

Akechi laughs in that honeyed way. “No, I’m not a ghost. Truthfully, I’m not sure how I managed to escape being one, though.”

Akira stares. His stomach is trying to climb out of his abdomen.

“After you left the palace, and I shot the cognition of myself, I found myself in a strange little blue room. In a jail cell.” He hums. “I don’t remember much from that week. I’d gotten a nice invisible bullet lodged in my back — once I’d returned from the Metaverse, that is, it was invisible — and spent some time in the hospital, and then _actual_ jail, and then I went on probation.” His lips thin into a line.

“How come I didn’t hear about any of that?” Akira is reeling.

“…It seems the world has very courteously forgotten about Akechi Goro,” he says softly, touching the tips of his fingers together. “I don’t… ah, I don’t mind too much.”

Akira can tell he’s lying, but doesn’t say anything. He finishes his drink instead.

“I wanted to come to one of these parties at least once, to pay my respects, or something like that. I wrote a letter to Haru. I asked her to not tell you I was here, but I see you’ve managed to find me anyway.”

“You were staring at me, you know. And then ran away when I noticed.”

Akechi’s face reddens at this. Aha. Akira has caught him. He takes the moment of weakness to study the other and calm himself down. He is wearing a light grey suit, and there is a single wrinkle on the left sleeve. It seems his hair is slightly longer now — he could probably tie it up if he wanted to — and he’s still wearing gloves, albeit a different pair than the ones he wore years ago. He’s also wearing a nice light red tie.

Light red tie. Akira frowns. “Is that… Are you wearing my tie?”

If Akechi’s face was red before, now it is closer to burning crimson. He fiddles with the tie in his hands. “Um, yes. It’s… when we were having a meeting in your room once, I saw it left out, and …” He looks as though he’s about to start crying, fingers anxiously toying with the tie. “I-I’m sorry, you can have it back, here —“

“No!” Akira shouts, and a few people nearby give him disgruntled stares. “You can keep it. I forgot I even had that tie. Besides, you look good in it.”

Now Akechi is even _more_ red. Akira is worried that soon he’s going to catch on fire. He feels like he’s floundering. He meant to talk to Akechi about the past four years and wanted to thank him for saving the Phantom Thieves but instead all he has managed to do is make him embarrassed.

But, well — Akira wasn’t lying when he said Akechi looks good in his tie. Red is a very fitting color for him, and he had thought that even in the Metaverse. It stands out strongly against his complexion and in this particular instance juxtaposes well against the grey of his suit. And combined with the fact that it’s _his_ tie…

… Akira is starting to feel sweaty again.

He shakes his head, as if to straighten himself out, and then says, “Do you want to go get coffee or something? I can make it at Leblanc if you like. Sojiro wouldn’t mind. He gave me a spare set of keys a while ago.”

Akechi opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again and says, “Yes, I’d… like that. I’ve been wanting to leave this party for a while.”

Akira takes out his phone and, as quickly and deftly as his fingers allow him, sends out a group message:

 **Me (22:43) :** really sorry but i’m leaving the party early. found akechi. i’ll send updates later  
**ryuji (22:44) :** What???  
**makoto (22:44) :** Akechi?  
**ryuji (22:44) :** Dude did you have too much to drink??  
**haru (22:45) :** Don’t worry about it, Akira :) Have a nice night  
**haru (22:45) :** @Makoto @Ryuji You guys should stay afterwards with me for a little bit

He scans the replies before slipping his phone back into his pocket, ignoring the string of vibrations as more notifications pop up. Then he stands and holds his hand out to Akechi.

“Ready, Crow?”

— x —

It is humorous, really, how long they held hands. Even after Akira pulled him through the swarms of people in the party, heart thrumming — he’s sure Akechi could feel his pulse through his fingers — he did not release his hand until they reached the train station.

Now, in the comfortable silence of Leblanc, while he brews coffee, Akira mulls over this fact. He finds himself unsure of what to do with his thoughts. Just a few moments ago he was at a party drinking whatever Ryuji gave him and now he is making coffee for someone he thought was dead for four years.

The atmosphere Leblanc offers them is unlike anything else. It holds one million unspoken words and one million memories hiding in the walls like termites.

He sighs, takes the cups of coffee he has made, and sets them down on the counter, then takes a seat next to Akechi.

“You know,” the brown haired man says, “You’ve trapped me here.” 

“What?”

“The trains stop running at 23:00.”

Akira bites his lip. He had forgotten about that. “You’ve caught me, detective.” He drinks some of the coffee. “I didn’t really mean to do that, though. There’s still the bed and couch upstairs, so…”

“I see.” He gives a small smile, no teeth. “Your plan was to trap me in your old room and keep me awake by giving me caffeine late at night, is that right?”

“No!” That’s the second time he’s shouted that in the span of a single hour. “I just wanted to talk to you. I forgot about all that other stuff.”

“I’m kidding. I know.”

Akechi would never have answered so kindly, casually, honestly four years ago.

They finish their coffees. Akira tells him about the rest of the former Thieves and how they are all doing now. Akechi tells him about his job — he works with museums to coordinate the shipment of various pieces of artwork and so and so. He didn’t want to be a detective anymore, and all things considered, that was an understandable desire. He thinks it is strange to hear Akechi be so open about his life; though, it was really concrete information about how he lives now more than anything else that he shared. He didn’t divulge anything more than necessary.

Akira washes their empty cups and returns them to their cabinet. After a minute of contemplation, he turns to counter. Akechi was staring at him again, but he pretends to not notice. “Come upstairs with me,” he says. “You can borrow some of my clothes to sleep in.”

He holds out his hand again, which is unnecessary, because Akechi _knows_ how to walk up a staircase, but waits to head up until they’re holding hands.

He wishes Akechi would take off those stupid gloves.

In the attic, Akira pulls out the storage box full of old clothes and begins sorting through them. Half of the things in here he had completely forgot he owned. He smiles when he pulls out a horribly ugly bright red shirt Ryuji had given him and finds some pants and a second set of clothes that function as pajamas.

It takes him a moment to shove the box back where it originally was before he stands and hands over the clothes to Akechi. “Red,” he says, grinning, “Your favorite.”

Akechi covers his face with a hand. “I said I was sorry for that.”

Akira’s fingers twitch. He feels an idea incoming. It is boiling in his brain like hot water.

He sets his clothes down on the couch.

“Let me help you,” he says gently, “With your tie, I mean. Since it’s mine, after all.”

So slowly he approaches Akechi until he is directly in front of him. Akira flicks his index and middle finger out and touches them to the top center of the taller man’s tie and drags his fingers down, parallel to his sternum. He feels the smooth fabric run along the pads of his fingers.

He leisurely undoes the tie as the restlessness in the room tightly coils up and snakes around the two of them. “You look really good in a suit,” he whispers, fabric finally removed and in his hands.

With a breath: “Kurusu —“

“You know it’s fine to just call me Akira, right?” Pause. “I’ve known you for a while. I just suggestively undid your tie.”

Akechi attempts to say something as a reply to this, but it’s mostly nonsensical noises. After he composes himself and begins to remove his jacket, he says, “Fine, then. You can call me Goro if you’d like as well.”

“Okay, Goro.” Akira feels much more — what had Makoto said? — _in his element_ now. “What were you saying?”

“Oh, um, nothing. Turn around when I’m changing.”

Akira obliges, turning his back to Goro while they change. He folds his clothes up and lays them on the floor, unsure where else to put them.

“All right.”

Akira turns around and can’t help but laugh. Goro looks… very unlike himself in that red t-shirt. He’s also wearing purple sweatpants, which adds to the hilarity.

“Don’t laugh! You gave me these.”.

“No, you look cute.” Akira tells himself that he should probably stop flirting. Instead of following up on that, he says, “Can I put in a movie?”

“Um, thank you, I suppose. And sure.”

Akira randomly selects a movie — he doesn’t want to watch it, really, just wants background noise — and inserts it into the DVD player. While he sets it up, Goro pulls two chairs over and stands idly by one before eventually sitting. He seems awfully nervous, and Akira worries that it’s because of him. The night moved so fast; he doesn’t fully know how he’s ended up here.

They’re about five minutes into the movie when Goro quietly says, “I don’t understand all of this.” He’s staring at his palms.

Akira straightens his back and turns to face the other. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’ve been nice to me all night — you made me coffee, you’re letting me sleep in your old room, you bought me a drink earlier — and you shouldn’t be doing that. I tried to kill you, in case you don’t remember.”

Akira wrings his hands. He was hoping this conversation wouldn’t come up. It makes him feel jagged inside.

“I do remember that. I — If I’m going to be honest, I don’t really know what to say here. I can tell you that I forgive you, which is nearly true, because I think a small piece of me can’t one hundred percent forgive the part of someone that tried to kill me, and I can tell you that when I see you now, I don’t think about the _old_ you anymore, but I don’t know if you’ll believe me. I can say thank you, because you saved me, but I don’t know if you’ll accept that either.”

“I see,” is all Goro manages through a strained voice.

“I’m right, aren’t I? I can say thank you and really, really mean it from the bottom of my heart when I say it — I’m speaking for myself and the rest of the Thieves when I say you saved our lives — but inside, you’re always going to call yourself a murderer. I can’t change how you perceive yourself. I can only show you that I’m grateful by making you coffee and talking to you, even if…” Akira stops. “Are you okay?”

Goro is shaking quite visibly. He’s folded his hands together in his lap in a poor effort to conceal the fact. He makes no eye contact with Akira, instead twiddles his thumbs a bit.

“Hey — “

“Please stop,” Goro says faintly. “I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore, I’ve decided. Not tonight. I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“Sure. Whenever you feel like it.”

All that is left to cushion the silence is the movie Akira had put in. They both do not look at the screen. Their knees touch, accidentally.

Goro does not move.

Akira swallows. Once again he’s been completely put out of his element. There is no way to proceed now without being blunt, he thinks.

“Goro,” he mumbles, looking up halfway, “Would you let me kiss you? I know it’s really out of nowhere and we haven’t seen each other in four years but I just can’t — “

It seems he doesn’t have to explain further because in one swift motion, Akechi Goro has pulled him in for a sweet, warm kiss. It is like being bathed in sunlight and it is like being flooded by moonlight and a thousand other senseless descriptors. He touches his hands against Goro’s face, gliding his fingers across his jaw and down his neck. His skin is smooth and Akira wants to hold every part of him. He is overwhelmed with emotion.

Four years is a long time.

He pulls away and stares at Goro. The brown haired man looks as though he is holding back tears best he possibly can. His lip quivers.

Akira laughs, but it feels a bit hysterical. “It’s — it’s okay.” He turns off the DVD player. “Let’s… go to bed, okay? Tomorrow we can talk about whatever needs to be talked about, but I’m tired and I just want to…” He sucks in a breath. “Please come sleep with me. I just want to be near you. I really did miss you.”

“Unfortunately you clearly did,” Goro says, swiping his eyes with his fists. “Please stop making me cry. I missed you too. I can’t believe you’re getting me to say it.”

They abandon the chairs, clumsily stepping around them with fingers laced loosely together. Akira crawls into bed first, briefly overcome with a tidal wave of nostalgia, and holds his arms out to Goro, as if he were an infant. He nestles himself in Akira’s arms, pulling the comforter underneath his chin.

“I’m sorry for being so dramatic and sentimental,” Akira whispers into his neck. “And intense. Laying together in bed isn’t exactly stage one.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I was going to apologize for crying but you’ve seen me worse.”

Akira isn’t sure what to say at first and decides to run his fingers through the other’s hair. Then: “Are you sure this is okay?”

“Yes. Goodnight, Akira.”

He smiles. “Goodnight.”

Through the window, the moonlight shines on them like a blanket.

**Author's Note:**

> btw, the first drink akira had was a matcha highball, and the second was a raspberry sake tea cocktail  
> thanks for reading ..!


End file.
